hope in the darkness
by cluelessclown
Summary: "Bahorel looked down at his friend, whose eyes were glassy and brimmed with tears. He definitely wouldn't want to spend what seemed likely to be the last night of his life all by himself – and right then he couldn't think of anyone better to share a bed with than Jean Prouvaire." Jehorel. Inspired by the song "Ghosts that we knew" by Mumford & Sons.


_**hope in the darkness**_

...

"_So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light_  
_Cause oh they gave me such a fright_  
_But I will hold as long as you like_  
_Just promise me we'll be alright._"

-_Ghosts that we knew_ (Mumford & Sons).

...

June already. How could it be? Time had sped by so quickly since the Amis had decided to form a group that was ought to change the world. They had met as schoolboys with similar interests, and had now become brothers in all but blood. They all knew each other almost as well as themselves, and to them nothing eased off their everyday problems than meeting up with their good old friends of the ABC. They all fit so well together, it was almost scary. They had been preparing for an uprising for months – but now it was a fact, just as much as the fact that the sun would rise the following morning.

In nine hours, Bahorel thought miserably, they would leave the house – and God knew if they would return alive.

He couldn't sleep. He wasn't scared for himself – he was a fighter, after all – but for the red-haired man sleeping in the room next door. He and Jean Prouvaire had been friends for as long as he could remember, growing as close as he had never been to anybody else. Being usually a rather distant man, however cheerful he usually was, this had really made a difference in Bahorel. He was very friendly with the other Amis, but Jehan seemed to be what some would call his soft spot. More than once he had ended up beating up some bully in a street near the Musain after hearing how his friend got insulted, or stayed up late trying to help him with his poetic inspiration. Jehan and Bahorel, all in all, had become _one_: there was no Jehan without Bahorel, and there was no Bahorel without Jehan.

Bahorel silently wondered what was to happen in the upcoming battle. It would be bloody and difficult, he knew that much – and there would definitely be an important amount of human losses regardless of the winning side in the battle, he knew that too. He quietly wondered if he and Jehan would be all right – he didn't mind himself that much as long as Jehan was fine, honestly. He peered up through the little box-sized window of his bedroom to stare up at the sky, as he and the poet had done quite a few times over the past years. Bahorel's eyes, had said Jehan, reminded him of the afternoon sky, when dawn started creeping its way down the horizon. Bahorel had enjoyed that comparison, and he didn't even know why. Then again, he enjoyed everything Jean Prouvaire said.

He glanced up at the moon, balling his fist quietly. He couldn't imagine Jehan murdering someone. He was such a pure thing, so innocent, so shy – he could hardly believe he would be able to aim at a soldier. He knew Jehan had a quite tough, almost buried side, but he doubted it would spring out in the midst of the battle to come. He now truly feared for his friend's life.

As he glanced back at the door, he promised he would do anything to keep Jehan safe.

It was then when he heard a soft groan coming from the room next door. It was hardly audible at first, but the following ones became louder and breathier. Bahorel furrowed his brow, as he had believed that Jehan would be asleep by then. He slipped out of his seat next to the window and tiptoed his way to his friends' room. Jehan's room had wider, nicer windows – Bahorel had let him take that room, as he knew his friend loved sunlight and would most likely be cheerier over there.

"Bahorel – Bahorel – "

He found him sitting still, wide-eyed and his red hair a mess. The poet clutched his blanket tightly, whispering odd words Bahorel couldn't understand. As soon as he saw his friend's mesmerized face, Bahorel hurried up to his side and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Jehan?" he shook his friend ever so lightly, rubbing his hand against the redhead's shoulder. "Jehan, what's wrong?"

Jehan glanced at him, his eyes wide and the corner of his lips trembling. He stared at Bahorel for a good ten seconds before quickly wrapping his arms around his neck and hugging him ever so tightly.

"Oh, good God, I thought you were dead," the poet's voice sounded muffled, as though he had just been crying. His thumbs were now doing small circles on his back, Bahorel noticed as he awkwardly hugged him back. He had never been one to enjoy personal contact, outside fist-fighting. "Bahorel, for God's sake, what were you doing?"

"What was _I_ doing?" asked the fighter, surprised. "I was just sitting in my bedroom until you sprang out of your sleep calling my name. It must've been a nightmare, Jehan."

Jehan shook his head firmly. "It was so vivid. I saw you – lying dead, whispering your last words, closing your eyes – oh, it was _terrible_. Then everyone else died after you, including Enjolras and Combeferre and Grantaire and Joly and – " Jehan choked back another sob and Bahorel couldn't help but hold him tighter against his chest.

"It's fine, Jehan," whispered the dark-haired man repeatedly. "It really is fine, mon ami. We're all alive, and will be for a long time – " Bahorel did not believe that last bit, but he needed to comfort his friend somehow. "It was just a nightmare."

Jehan shook his head quietly. "We're going to die. I know we're going to die."

The thought struck Bahorel, and for a moment he felt just as vulnerable as his good friend. He somehow knew what was going to happen during the next few hours – _they were all going to die_. He tried to fight the thought away, to pull it off his drowsy mind – but he found out he couldn't. The thought was too stubborn, too realistic to leave. He hated himself for being such a pessimist.

A soft voice tore him away from his thoughts for a moment.

"Stay with me for the night, Bahorel?"

Bahorel looked down at his friend, whose eyes were glassy and brimmed with tears. Though he did not show it, he felt just as vulnerable. He definitely wouldn't want to spend what seemed likely to be the last night of his life all by himself – and right then he couldn't think of anyone better to share a bed with than Jean Prouvaire.

He pressed a soft kiss to his friend's forehead. "All right," he whispered. "I'll stay." The fighter quietly tucked into his friend's bed and, looking at him ever so quietly, he pressed a kiss to the back of his neck as he wrapped an arm around his middle. "It will be fine, I promise."

Jehan nodded quietly, shrinking into a tiny ball of a redhead, and placed his forehead against Bahorel's bare chest. "I hope, so Bahorel," he yawned quietly. "I want to go to the Luxembourg with you again and make you one of my flower crowns."

Bahorel nodded quietly, feeling a pang of guilt upon lying to his best friend. "You'll make me as many flower crowns as you wish, Jehan." He felt how the other smiled against his chest, and for a moment he smiled too.

The poet fell asleep in the fighter's arms, and for that night all was right.

_..._

Bahorel heard a shot and suddenly became dizzy. His side ached and his eyes were sore from the little sleep he had gathered that night, but it all became worse when he realized who was the one that had been shot.

Jehan. _His_ Jehan.

He trembled. He felt how his entire body failed as he quickly turned around to find his dearest friend clutching a gaping hole in his stomach. Bahorel wheeled around to go help him, despite the fact that he shouldn't. In fact, he _really_ shouldn't have – but it was his Jehan we're talking about. He made his way to his wounded friend, and knelt beside him.

"Jehan – " he whispered, feeling numb and dizzy at the same time. Jehan was not to die. He was so young, so naïve, so pure – he didn't deserve it. Bahorel felt hot tears stinging in his clear blue eyes. "Jehan, we've got to make it back. I'm sure Joly will be able to fix you up."

Jehan offered him a tired smile. "Bahorel. My dearest friend." He placed a gentle hand on Bahorel's cheek. It was so goddamn cold, the fighter noted. "My love. My inspiration."

Bahorel felt how his body trembled as he shook his head quietly. "Jehan, we've got to get you _somewhere_ – " But he knew it was too late. The poet was dying. His last verses were about to leave his lips, and his last words would be gone with the wind within a few moments. Bahorel would be left alone, numb and empty. He felt like hitting his friend and embracing him against his chest at the same time. "Jehan, please . . . " He placed his lips against his forehead, feeling a pang in his chest upon learning it was just as cold as the poet's hand.

"We'll see each other someday," said the other, his eyes slowly flicking closed. He smiled ever so kindly at the touch of Bahorel's lips on his forehead. "Though I hope I meet you old, aged and with your knuckles tired from hitting bullies in small dead-end streets." Had he not been at such critical state, the optimistic poet would have undoubtedly laughed at his own little joke.

Bahorel felt how silent tears started making their way down his cheeks. Something told him that the poet's expectations would not become true, but he couldn't find anything else to say. He quietly placed his lips on Jehan's and, a moment later, stroked his cheek. "Stay safe, _poète_."

Jehan did a small smile, and Bahorel broke down.

And so Jehan was Jehan no more.


End file.
